


(to swell a progress, start) a scene or two

by HimereCalliope



Category: Good Omens (TV) RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HimereCalliope/pseuds/HimereCalliope
Summary: There is – thank goodness – always a part of him that is fully aware of his own ridiculousness, and another that, through long practice, has learned to at least mostly restrain his more dangerous impulses. So he doesn't kiss David.But he thinks about it rather fervently, and never quite stops.(AKA: Five Times They Didn't Kiss and One Time They Did)
Relationships: Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 30
Kudos: 126
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	(to swell a progress, start) a scene or two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iteration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iteration/gifts).

> Technical note: For the best reading experience, read this story on ao3 and allow work skins/creator's style. 
> 
> Warnings/content notes: in the end notes.

It doesn’t sneak up on him so much as it strides up to him in broad daylight, waves merrily, and then bludgeons him over the head with a tire iron. One moment he’s watching David fix his contacts and check something with a cameraman, and the next he’s leaning in, utterly Crowley, but with a twist to his smile and a lilt in his body that’s both unexpected and completely perfect, and Michael very suddenly and slightly madly wants to kiss the life out of him. 

Part of that is how far he is dialed into Aziraphale right now, yes, of course, but the much larger and truly staggered part is all Michael, overwhelmed with admiration and – always, much too eagerly – clamoring for intimacy. And David’s not even speaking, doesn’t even need to use his voice to deliver nuances of meaning and reinterpretation, no, just that one movement is enough to whirl such a rich constellation of emotion up into the air around them that it’s utterly instinctive to react, respond, and build – this scene, these characters, a relationship – from there. 

How could he not want to kiss David? Not want to take him by the shoulders and make him– not _see_, but physically _feel_ the effect of what he’s doing? The effect that his talent, that _he’s_ having on Michael. How could he ever have thought that David Tennant was _safe_ – oh, attractive, sure, but in a way he could get used to ignoring, in a way that wouldn’t reach into every cavity of his body and _pull_? It seems ludicrously naïve. 

He doesn’t kiss David, of course. There is – thank goodness – always a part of him that is fully aware of his own ridiculousness, and another that, through long practice, has learned to at least mostly restrain his more dangerous impulses. So he doesn’t. 

But he thinks about it rather fervently, and never quite stops. 

* * *

It’s always good not to be alone at two in the morning. The wee hours are… not when he’s at his best. Or, well, he’s all right, mostly, if he’s working. But then it needs to be actual _working_. Not this, this endless sitting around and waiting for other people to finish their work so he can maybe, sometime tonight, get back to his. And sure, it’s warm and comfortable in the trailer, nothing to complain about, but it’s also cut off from all signs of activity outside. This, yes, this has all the makings of a bad 2 AM. Not enough things to distract him, and too much time to think. Never enough tangible reminders of what’s real and what matters. Too much of himself, always. 

Which also means he’s currently hardly the best company, and really, he probably should be apologizing for that. But then, the thing about David – one of the things about David, one of the many, many things that he has stored away in the back of his brain and that shift into focus at odd moments – is that he never seems to mind in the way a normal person would. He doesn’t get annoyed at Michael’s grumpiness, or tired of his bursts of slightly manic energy, or even unsettled by his gratuitously morose moments. It’s the sincerity there that he appreciates, Michael suspects. Which is good, because it’s entirely too easy to slide into unfiltered honesty with David. 

“I’m not sure I could ever relax like that, if I’m honest. I always get worried if it feels like I’ve been happy for too long.” Case in point, obviously, He probably shouldn’t have said that. 

“Not just when I’m working – although there probably especially, because that’s always a danger sign – but just in general. In life.” Adding more words never does make it better, but knowing that also never seems to stop him. “It’s not even that I don’t trust it to last, it’s more… I feel like I can’t let myself relax too much, because if I do, I know – from experience – that I am going to break something. I’m going to mess something up. And because I’m thinking it, that then of course ends up becoming self-fulfilling, in a way.”

Yes, he very probably shouldn’t have said that. It doesn’t sound particularly sane even to his own ears. 

Too late now. 

“I know what you mean, I think.” 

But of course, this is David. Doing what he does. Catching up another one of the absurd confessions Michael has thrown out there and treating it like it’s somehow reasonable. Like it’s not disturbing at all, but perfectly relatable. It should be implausible, but instead it’s a heady feeling that goes straight to, well, his head. Intoxicating and enticing. So, so enticing. 

“I sort of do the same,” David says, and stops just short of running a hand through his hair. Careful not to prolong anyone’s night by making someone fix it. “I worry even when objectively there shouldn’t be much to worry about, and then that gets to be such a habit that I don’t feel right when I’m _not_ worrying, even though, well, I mean, that’s better, healthier, a lot of the time. And then even when things are fine I worry about not worrying enough, and that’s just not a nice cycle to get into.” 

Michael nods. He knows that rather well. “So what do you do?” 

“Well, all the things you’re supposed to do. Try to breathe. Try to focus on the moment without thinking about all the ways everything could go wrong in the next one. Maybe take a step back and think about how unlikely it actually is that everything will collapse around me. Or take a step forward, and remind myself of all the things I could do to put things right if they did start to go wrong. But mostly just breathe, and try to concentrate on the good things.”

“Yeah.” Michael sighs. “I’ve never been good at the just breathing.” 

“What do you do, then?” 

“Try to accept that I’m going to mess something up at some point, that that’s just a fact, and also just human. Stop trying to match some ideal, and just be pragmatic in reality. Just get on with it, essentially.”

“Does that work?” 

That tugs a laugh out of Michael. “I don’t know. Do I seem particularly stable to you?” 

David leans back on the creaky settee and looks over at him for a thoughtful moment. “As much as anyone. More than a few other people I know, honestly.It’s really the ones who _don’t_ know what their issues are that you’ve got to watch out for, I think.” He smiles softly. “You’re fine. You’re an example of how it should be done, probably.” 

That shouldn’t, really shouldn’t feel like the warmest, most cheek-heating compliment, but somehow, it still does. It’s like that, with David. 

It’s also, he’s sure, written all over his face. But, well, it’s _David_. What’s one more embarrassing truth against all the ones he’s seen already? Seen, and not minded. Has even shared, occasionally. 

“Well. Back at you.” He smiles quietly at David, and if his feelings leak out through his eyes, well. He thinks he sees just a bit of something in David’s eyes, too. And tries not to think about what he might do if the circumstances were just a bit different. 

* * *

David is standing, restless, in Michael’s trailer, and he doesn’t want to leave. Everything about him – from his eyes to the tips of his shoes, digging into the worn-out beige rug – seems to be trying to hold on to the current moment. But there’s a car waiting to take him to the airport for a flight he has to catch, and that is just how things go. You live in each other’s pockets for a while, you weave your days around each other’s presence, and then you say goodbye. 

It… doesn’t usually feel quite so much like something vital is being ripped apart. Michael thinks he can remember times when he was happy for a job to end, probably. Maybe. It’ll come back to him when David’s– when this is done and he can reflect calmly again. 

“Well. I guess you’re rid of me now.” David tries for a laugh, and almost half succeeds.  
  
“Yes, finally I get to hog the limelight all to myself.” He doesn’t do much better, can feel himself on the verge of choking up.

He pulls David into a hug instead, a bit too tight to be appropriate, except for the way he’s being squeezed just as hard in return. “Take care,” he says, which is just about as many words as he can get out right now. 

“Yeah. You, too.” 

Michael hangs on just a second longer before reluctantly pulling himself away, blinking. “I’ll see you in New York, yeah?” he offers. 

David nods, and makes a better effort towards a smile. “Yeah. It’ll be October before we know it, just wait.” 

Michael follows him to the door and watches David head for the car. It’s bright sunlight out here, and other people about, which helps. 

With a hand on the car door, David turns and sees him watching. He smirks and raises an eyebrow, all public performance mode now, which does make things easier. 

“Hate to see you leave,” Michael calls, “But the other part is _very_ nice!” 

David laughs and blows him an exaggerated kiss before slipping into the car. 

Michael watches it drive away, and feels just a bit lighter than before. 

* * *

  
**David: **Last day of filming then? How are you doing?  
  
[](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D-L6ubwXkAEcgtT.jpg) **Michael: **[[dewy-eyed selfie](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D-L6ubwXkAEcgtT.jpg)]  
  
  
**David: **Aw. ❤️  
  
**Michael: **I really am going to miss it. It’s been lovely being an angel.  
  
**David: **And you were utterly lovely at it.  
  
**Michael: **Pity it’s never those parts of a role that stick. The next time you see me I’ll probably be a right bastard.  
  
**Michael: **Feel free to wallop me over the head if it gets too much.  
  
**David: **I will never; you are very lovely as your very own self. And even better, you’re real. That’s my favorite part. X  
  
**Michael: **Well there goes the rest of my makeup.  
  
**Michael: **Miss you. xx  
  


* * *

It should probably be worrying, he thinks, how easily he falls back into this. How they both do. Slightly perturbing, at least. There ought to be… _something_. Some… if not awkwardness, then at least some kind of renegotiation of familiarity, of space. They haven’t seen each other in months. And they’ve only known each other at all, really, in the warped, half-written expanse that is film production, between sets and locations, in trailers and on camping chairs, and half the time not as themselves. It just shouldn’t be this easy, here, now. It shouldn’t slot into reality, or whatever form of that a press tour can claim, this well. 

But it is, and it does, and that… well, that. He’ll tell himself he should have known, and admit later that really, he probably did. 

It’s not surprise when David’s arm fits perfectly around him every time they have to pose, or when Michael’s heart slows down each time they slot together, or even when the most repetitively boring interviews leave him feeling happy as long as it’s the two of them together. 

It’s not a surprise either when they find themselves still at a table in the half-empty hotel bar long after they should probably have gone to bed. They’re talking about nothing in particular, and everything that comes to mind, and it’s just… very close to perfect. And if there’s just one more thing so close, yet out of reach… well. 

“I don’t know,” Michael says, because it’s his turn to talk. “It’s just human, isn’t it? Impossible dreams, wishing for things you could never have? It’s a side effect of having an imagination, almost.” 

“David frowns down at the table. “Is that part of what makes it so alluring, do you think? The fact that it _is_ something you could never have?” 

“I think there’s probably an element of that to it, yeah,” Michael hums, thinking. “A lot of the time. The grass always being greener, and all that. And always wanting what’s out of your reach.” 

“If that’s true, then is it maybe better to never get a chance at the thing at all? So it can stay a happy dream?”

“I wouldn’t say that. It depends on what it is, I suppose. And why you can’t have it. If it’s for purely practical reasons, just something that’s out of your reach economically, or socially, or whatever, that’s one thing, and very different than if it’s impossible for, say, moral reasons.” 

“Mm.” David nods, looking lost in thought. “But what if the reasons it’s impossible completely fall away? If the circumstances change, if it’s not out of reach anymore, for whatever reason, and you can have it without anything about it being immoral? Would that necessarily be a good thing?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “It probably depends on what it is the person was wishing for. And why they were wishing for it. If it’s someone who just always wants what someone else has, they’re not going to be happy for long, obviously. If it’s more of a truly personal wish, well, that’s more complicated, isn’t it? Then it’s a question of, do they really want the actual thing, the reality of it, or are they just longing for an imaginary version of it they’ve created in their head?” 

“Yes, exactly. Because dreaming of something impossible is very safe, in a way, isn’t it? You don’t have to be realistic about it, you can imagine whatever you want. You can make it an impossible ideal. And if, after however long you spend wishing for that, if you were suddenly confronted with the real thing, warts and all, then what?” 

“Then you would probably be horribly disappointed. Angry, even. I think most people like having their illusions shattered even less than just not getting something they want.”

“Basically a recipe for disaster, then.” 

“Not necessarily,” Michael says quietly. “Not always. Sometimes people really do want the things they dream about in a real way. And even if they came with, as you say, warts and all, that would be completely outweighed by the rest of it.” 

“So how can you tell, then? If a wish is for something real, or for something imaginary?”

“I’m not sure you can. Not with any certainty. Because we can’t know what it’s really like to have something if we’ve never had it.” 

“So no way to tell at all, you think?” 

“Well,” Michael considers, “having some life experience probably helps. Having had a few things blow up in your face, or turn out the opposite of what you expected. But really, I think it’s probably more a question of attitude. Of, maybe, are you willing to fight for the thing you want? Even if it’s with yourself? Can you let go of the perfection you were imagining and just appreciate the good parts that you do have? And are you willing to put the work in to make this work for you, in spite of whatever unpleasant parts there might be? It’s not easy, God knows, but I think if you can do that, that’s the key. To most of life, actually.” 

David sighs. “I suppose you’re right. There never are any easy answers, are there?” 

There really aren’t. Not on an abstract philosophical level. But… “Is it possible,” Michael asks, carefully, “that you have something specific on your mind?” 

“Just a bit.” David admits with a weak smile, directed mostly at the table.

Right. “Does it…” a bit of a leap, possibly, but then again… “involve me?” 

“Yes.” And David meets his gaze now, steady and full with unspoken meaning. 

Unspoken meaning, of course, will only take you so far when one of the parties has been known to suffer rather severely from wishful thinking. 

“I think,” Michael says slowly, “I’m going to need a little more information.” 

“Yes, well.” David glances around unobtrusively, must see that there’s no one close enough to hear, and still lowers his voice. “As it happens… circumstances _have_ changed.” He seems to be hoping that Michael will take it from there, somehow. Unfortunately, Michael can’t think of any way to do that. Well, no way except… 

“I can’t imagine,” he lowers his voice even further than David’s, “that your being happily married is one of them.” And then he holds himself still while his heart pounds. 

David purses his lips, frowns. Because _of course_ it isn’t. It shouldn’t need saying. The question is what David _is_ trying to say, here. And if it’s possible that Michael has gotten hold of not just the wrong end, but of a completely wrong stick entirely. 

“I am very happily married. To the most wonderful woman in, probably, the universe.” 

This isn’t news to Michael, so he waits while David takes a steadying breath. 

“Who thinks I could, maybe, be happier. And wants me to – is, in fact, very much encouraging me to – go for it.” David meets his eyes again, finally, and the determined vulnerability there nearly stops Michael’s heart. But this is such dangerous territory, he knows better than to think he can read it right. 

“For the sake of my sanity,” he begs, low and rough, “could you be a little more clear?” 

“I’m saying,” David says, so quietly and so sincerely, “that… if you were to invite me up to your room, I would come.” 

Michael releases a breath and tries to ignore the way his internal organs seem to be spontaneously rearranging themselves. He’s not dizzy, he just… needs to adjust to a slight change in heart rate. 

He doesn’t ask David if he really means it, or if he’s sure. The first would be both insulting and preposterous, and the second, well, they haven’t just spent thirty minutes in philosophical discussion for nothing. 

The thing is – the thing that he has had to learn, has intermittently hated, and has, in the end, always had to accept – the thing is that you can’t wait, in life, for certainty. By the time you’re certain of a thing, whatever opportunity there was has most likely passed. You can’t say maybe, you have to say yes or no. 

“David,” he says, reasonably steadily and with deliberate eye-contact, “would you like to come up to my room?” 

* * *

It’s still very early morning when he wakes up. Only the faintest blue light is filtering in through the crack in the curtains, and the hotel is quiet in the way hotels only ever are before even the early risers start rising. 

Normally he would check his phone, but his phone is… well, it was last in his trouser pocket, and his trousers are currently in a heap on the floor somewhere. Probably. It’s not really something he was paying attention to last night. He could, of course, theoretically get out of bed and look, but non-theoretically, David is curled up snugly against his side, and Michael is warm and comfortable and a little bit preposterously happy, and not about to change a single thing. He looks at David instead, tracing the dim greyscale shades on his face, and for once just lets himself indulge in all the feelings welling in his chest. 

Possibly he does it a bit too intensely, because David makes a soft sound, stirs, and opens his eyes. “Time to get up?” He asks, and his voice is endearingly rough with sleep. 

“No.” Michael shakes his head, and can’t help smiling. And then, because he wants to, runs his thumb along the stubble on David’s jaw. “Mind if I kiss you?” 

That gets him a surprised huff of a laugh. “I thought I’d been pretty clear about how much I don’t mind.” He’s probably raising his eyebrows, though Michael can’t quite tell in the dark. He still loves it. 

“Good to know,” he hums, and leans over to press his lips to David’s as gently as you please, until David tugs him close for more. 

It’s a very good morning. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Warnings/Content Notes:
> 
>   * some discussion of mental health issues
>   * **no** infidelity (but an open relationship)


End file.
